


bear it til our bodies break

by spektri



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Everything is better with dogs, M/M, hanzo wants to help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:37:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9263876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spektri/pseuds/spektri
Summary: Sometimes McCree suffers and Hanzo doesn't know how to deal with it.Fact number four: whether or not Hanzo opted for it initially, whether or not he expected or intended this, he cares. He cares much more than he ever thought he would care about any person apart from Genji: he definitely cares much more than he ever thought he would when he first met Jesse McCree.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this as a birthday present for a friend of mine. it is partially inspired by the first page of this beautiful work by gunnslaughter: https://gunnslaughter.tumblr.com/post/150446880556/page-1-page-2-page-3-page-4-page-5 (warning for character death in the later pages) and the fact that i really really want a dog

Hanzo wakes up when McCree jerks awake nearly violently next to him.

The sudden wake-up has Hanzo in a state of minor panic at first, as he is not used to sleeping in unfamiliar environments, and it takes a while for him to adjust to the lack of space and the near-suffocating warmth surrounding him. It comes back to him in pieces: first the who, then the where, then the why. A faint sense of dread and shame threaten to surface, and he pushes it down, telling himself, _not now_.

Hanzo finds McCree’s silhouette in the darkness, taking a moment to focus on him. He is sitting up, breathing heavily and too controlled, as if he is trying to stay quiet. Hanzo notices this, too: he is clutching on his prosthetic arm.

Hanzo does not know how to react.

He decides to look at the facts and try to formulate a plan, for whatever it is worth.

Fact number one: he did not mean to sleep here. McCree did not invite him to stay — they simply fell asleep. What this means is that he does not know what he is allowed to do, where the lines might be crossed.

Fact number two: they have not defined their relationship, and although McCree has been more than forward regarding his intentions (sometimes so much so that even thinking about it Hanzo feels the annoying burn of embarrassment) it is not as if they have opened up to each other about everything in their lives. Hanzo does not know how involved McCree wants him to be.

Fact number three: McCree is trying to keep quiet, trying to stay still, trying not to wake Hanzo, which does not exactly invite intrusion.

Fact number four: whether or not Hanzo opted for it initially, whether or not he expected or intended this, he cares. He cares much more than he ever thought he would care about any person apart from Genji: he definitely cares much more than he ever thought he would when he first met Jesse McCree, a sharpshooter and a cowboy.

These facts do not help him to decide what he should do — he does not know what McCree expects him to or what he would like for him to, and he does not know to what extent he could be helpful. He does not know _what_ is going on: he does not know if McCree wants him to (he suspects he doesn’t, or he would have brought it up at some point).

It all boils down to Hanzo not knowing. And at the same time, it feels disingenuous to pretend to be asleep when he is not. And at the same time, he does not want for McCree to suffer alone.

Hanzo does not know what to do: but he sits up quietly, calmly, so that he will not frighten McCree. He feels the body next to him stiffen, the breathing stopping for a while until it continues again even slower than a moment ago, McCree doing his best to pretend that everything is alright when it obviously is not. Hanzo knows he cannot steal that illusion from him: he has not obtained the right, and he knows how comforting a lie like that can be. How important, sometimes, it feels to hide your weaknesses.

Hanzo does not know what to do, but he places a hand on McCree’s shoulder quietly, gently, stroking small circles with his thumb: saying, _I am here_ and _it is okay_ and _you do not have to tell me_ with the gesture, or hopes to. It takes a while for McCree to find a counter-reaction in himself, but after that moment his hand is covered with McCree’s, and they twine their fingers together.

They sit like that in the quiet and dark for some time, until McCree’s breathing turns normal, and he shifts and kisses Hanzo’s cheekbone. They resettle on McCree’s small bed again, curl up around each other, with McCree’s head tucked under Hanzo’s chin and their arms around each other — vaguely Hanzo knows that when he wakes up his arm definitely will not, not after having stayed underneath McCree all night, but at that moment he does not mind — and they lie together like that until, eventually, they drift off to sleep again.

Before Hanzo falls asleep again he wonders if he handled this right.

 

*

 

Hanzo is drunk.

There was a birthday party, and Hanzo drank. He didn’t _mean_ to — not at first, at least — but there was a welcome cocktail and then everyone started socializing and he had nothing else to do with his hand and after a while McCree was being _McCree_ and he needed to drink the embarrassment away. Hanzo cannot understand whose idea it was to buy a mechanical bull for this ridiculous affair, but he decides that they should absolutely be reprimanded for it, possibly with arrows. He decides that Genji should be reprimanded also, considering he was the one egging McCree on.

Everyone who drinks has drunk their share by the time McCree grabs him by the waist and announces to the rest, “I’m gonna go see our not-cybernetically enhanced assassin finds his way to his room.” Some thank-yous, jokes, hollers and pleasantries later — each of which feels to Hanzo as if they take many valuable minutes that could be used much better — Hanzo is being led away from the rec room and through the familiar corridors towards the living quarters.

McCree is warm and solid and smells of cigars and whiskey and Hanzo leans against him a little more heavily than is strictly necessary as soon as they’re away from prying eyes. This earns him a warm chuckle and a firmer grip and Hanzo cannot refrain from being prickly.

“I do not need a walker.”

Hanzo can feel McCree’s smile against his temple. “I know, darling,” he says, “but I couldn’t resist stealing a moment of your time just for myself.” Then, after a pause: “Besides, I rather I didn’t hear you losing your way to anyone else’s room save for mine and _maybe_ your own.”

Hanzo scowls. “I may be slightly tipsy, but I can still find my way around the base.”

“Oh, well, guess I should just leave you here and go back to the party,” McCree says, detaching himself from Hanzo and taking a step back.

Hanzo frowns and stops and turns, face to face now with McCree, and pulls him back. “No,” he says, draping McCree’s arm back to exactly where it was.

McCree chuckles and noses Hanzo’s temple again, his warm breath tickling Hanzo’s skin.

If he were a more comfortable man, a more _eloquent_ man, Hanzo would take this chance to tell him how happy he has been lately. How good it feels to have someone at his back, someone to trust, someone to come home to. How thankful he is for McCree for seeing something in him worth caring about, for helping him work towards his redemption, for understanding.

But he is not, and so he says nothing. Even if he tried, it would only come out wrong.

Hanzo marvels at how easily McCree does it. How for the whole duration of their walk from the rec room to the living quarters McCree hardly takes a breath between mumbling endearments and compliments that color Hanzo’s cheeks a bright red and makes him want to punch and kiss McCree simultaneously.

It is a relief when they reach McCree’s door. He shuts up as he taps in his keycode, and Hanzo waits in silence, reveling in the safety of McCree’s presence. 

He does not remember when he last associated the word _safe_ with a person. He does not remember if he _ever_ did that before.

“You’re leaning on me mighty heavily there, darling,” McCree says as they step in his room.

“I am fine.” Hanzo does not need to be called out for his drinking, especially by _McCree_ of all people.

“You are finer than frog hair and you’ll never catch me not ogling after you, but you’re also drunk as a skunk.”

Hanzo scowls at McCree’s ridiculous expressions, but instead of fighting over them he decides to correct McCree on the truly important subject at hand: “I have been more drunk and managed.”

“Honey, knowing you that ain’t exactly reassuring.”

Hanzo turns around, facing McCree, and looks at him defiantly. “Are you calling me a drunk?”

An amused smile plays at his lips, and he looks at Hanzo with his eyes half-lidded. He wraps both of his arms around Hanzo’s waist and pulls him close: Hanzo lets him.

“I’m calling you _exquisite_ ,” McCree says. Hanzo wants to call him something, too: ridiculous, immature, foolish. He does not get the chance to as McCree kisses him, drunk and everything but _exquisite_ , but he doesn’t mind. He answers the kiss with equal sloppiness, allowing it to grow heated. When McCree starts slipping his hand across his lower stomach underneath Hanzo’s clothing, Hanzo pulls away so quickly that for a second McCree seems dazed.

“I am taking a shower.”

McCree blinks a few times before regaining his composure (hard evidence that Hanzo is not the only one who has  been drinking), and grabs Hanzo by his wrist, trying to pull him back.

“Baby,” he says, pleading. “Honey — sugar — sweetheart. Snugglebug. Darling — _come on_.”

Hanzo squishes McCrees’s cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and plants a quick kiss on his pursed lips. He looks ridiculous: Hanzo cannot help chuckling at McCree’s confusion and disappointment or how adorable he somehow manages to be.

“I am taking a shower,” he repeats. “You wait …” he grabs McCree, turns him around, pushes him a few feet backwards to sit on his bed, “... here.”

McCree has that expression on his face: the one where he looks at Hanzo as if he has single-handedly saved the universe. It is simultaneously exhilarating and embarrassing to Hanzo. He cannot balance between the feelings of being pleased and feeling undeserving.

Hanzo tries to push it down with a smirk.

“While I am gone,” he says, voice low and the closest thing to sultry he can manage, “you should remove …” he brushes his hand across McCree’s flannel shirt, soft against his touch, feeling the firm muscle underneath, “... these.” He runs his fingers up, touching McCree’s throat lightly, feels the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“Alright,” McCree says, and Hanzo feels the vibration of his throat as he speaks. He bends down to kiss him softly. “I can do that.”

“See that you do.”

Hanzo parts with some reluctance, turns his back and walks to McCree’s bathroom in as straight a line as he can manage. It takes him more effort than he would like to admit; McCree was not wrong about his state of drunkenness, which is another thing he would rather not admit to.

He takes off his clothes and leaves them in an unceremonious pile, very unlike him, but he cannot find it in himself to care. He turns on the shower, lets the spray turn warm, and steps underneath it. He closes his eyes and does his best to steady himself. His head swims lightly, his hands feel a little weak, but he is fine. He can taste the alcohol on his tongue: the mixture of the sugary cocktails and the more familiar whiskey, a sticky and unpleasant sensation.

He opens his eyes and soaps himself flimsily, lets the spray wash it away, and turns the shower off. He steps out, dries himself hastily on McCree’s towel, hangs it back up, brushes his teeth to rid the heavy taste in his mouth. It works adequately, the toothpaste more or less overpowering the alcohol. He looks at himself in the mirror: his eyes, bloodshot, his greying temples, his permanent furrow between his brows. He thinks about the face McCree wore just moments ago and wonders _how_ , even in this state he is in, does he manage it.

Hanzo steps out of the bathroom with his hair still dripping water on his shoulders. McCree is lying down, arm over his eyes, stripped down to all but his underwear.

“Well done,” he says. He smiles. _Smirks_ . Hoping that McCree understands the humour, _his_ humour.

McCree drags his arms away and Hanzo closes the distance between them, and McCree’s eyes widen as he takes in what he sees. Hanzo feels the familiar burn of embarrassment, something that he has been forced to get used to in the time he has spent with McCree.

“Honey,” he says, voice not much more than an elaborate exhale. Hanzo climbs in the bed, sets himself on top of McCree, straddling him. “You take my breath away.”

Hanzo looks away for a moment to let the burn of shame in his stomach dissipate. Just when he is turning away, he feels McCree putting something on his head.  He only needs the evidence of McCree’s blown pupils to recognize it as his cowboy hat.

Hanzo scoffs. He doesn’t take it away.

“Lord have mercy,” McCree whispers, staring at Hanzo, and Hanzo knows that by now his cheeks must be tinted with pink. McCree must be the most infuriatingly embarrassing person he has ever had the pleasure to meet, and even so… even so.

Hanzo leans forward, looking McCree straight into the eyes, even though his gaze is unfocused, flickering between Hanzo’s stomach and pectorals and the hat he is wearing.

“Why,” Hanzo asks, demanding attention, and McCree’s eyes snap to his even if his hand has started to draw a slow line down across his body, “are you a cowboy.”

McCree snorts indignantly, sputters, caught off-guard by the question. It becomes a full-blown laughter quickly, and Hanzo feels his stomach vibrating between his legs. It should not feel erotic, he realizes, shamed by the twitch in his groin.

“Just so I could lasso handsome men like you, sweetheart,” McCree answers finally after his laughter has died down to nothing more than amused smirk and a soft chuckle. He has the gall to make a lassoing gesture with his hand, too, making a show of catching Hanzo and pulling him in. Hanzo refuses to takes a part of it, glances away instead.

“Aww, come on, darling.”

Hanzo stares at the corner of the bed. “You are ridiculous,” he says. Not for the first time, likely not for the last. “And that must have been the most ridiculous thing you have ever said.”

“Well, damn,” McCree says, and takes Hanzo’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, turns his face towards his again. “I gotta try harder then.”

McCree leads Hanzo down, and Hanzo follows, bracing himself with his elbows on both sides of McCree’s head. They kiss, and McCree’s hands slide to cup Hanzo’s face, then down across his neck, his back, fingers splayed on his ass. Grabs, pulls closer. Hanzo accedes, grinds with a roll of his hips. Revels in the breathy moan McCree makes against his lips.

Hanzo presses his body as close to McCree as he can, and feels his hands traveling up his body. His prosthetic hand slows in his neck, his flesh one presses on his pectoral, thumbing the nipple. Hanzo has gotten used to the attraction it draws, especially from McCree, by now — but it still astounds him how much pleasure can be derived from it.

Hanzo licks McCree’s lip, bites it gently, and presses kisses down his neck. He grinds himself against McCree, bites him, relieves one hand to trail it down McCree’s hairy chest, down until he can grab them both in his hand. McCree is panting, surprisingly quiet otherwise: usually he’s spouting all kinds of sappy nonsense at this point. Weren’t it for the deep colour of his voice, it would annoy Hanzo to no end — but he cannot fail to notice how odd it feels, this silence. He is mortified to realize that he misses the endearments and the compliments, as much as they embarrass him —

“Jesse?”

McCree’s eyes open slowly, his brow furrows in confusion. “What’s wrong?” he asks, still panting, voice hoarse and a little unlike him. Hanzo wonders if he is reading too much into this situation: perhaps it is just how the alcohol works its way in McCree’s system — and shouldn’t it be a blessing to have him be quiet or once? — or maybe he’s simply lost in the moment.

“That is what I’d like to ask you,” Hanzo says, staring at him hard as if he thought McCree would slip up and reveal something accidentally. But unfortunately McCree is just as good at bluffing outside of poker games as he is in them: he closes himself off and covers it with a smile that would be charming if Hanzo didn’t know better.

“The only thing that’s wrong, baby, is that you’re not riding me yet.”

There are a lot of things Hanzo thinks he could say to counter that. Most of them include him chewing out McCree. He doesn’t have the time to do that, even if he chose to: McCree cranes his neck up, closing the distance between them, bringing their lips back together. Hanzo allows the kiss to go on for a while, reciprocates, even — but it comes clear, fast, that his hunch was right. Something is wrong. McCree kisses differently, too: as if he is somewhere else, not in the present.

Hanzo pushes him forcibly down by his shoulders. McCree yelps indignantly in confusion.

“Hey?”

Hanzo stares at him, tries to find a tell. There is none. But he knows — he _knows_ something is wrong, he _knows_ this is not only the work of his overactive imagination. (His imagination was never one to be lauded, anyhow. In fact, Genji used to make fun of his tragically mundane ideas when they tried to play pretend as children.)

“I’m flattered you’re all worried about little ol’ me, sweetcheeks, but don’t bother wasting your energy on that. I’m fine as a beeswing, and all I want is you.” He makes another attempt at lunging towards Hanzo, but Hanzo stops him.

“You are lying,” he says. McCree’s smile falters just a little: and although it bounces back in mere seconds, it is all the evidence Hanzo needs.

Hanzo throws the hat on his head on the floor. It feels suddenly feels ridiculous and inappropriate. McCree makes a disappointed whine as his gaze follows the trajectory of the hat. It sounds a lot like “ _buuuuut_.”

“You are not fine,” Hanzo insists, pressing his hands on McCree’s chest and keeping him down.

“Come on, honey,” McCree tries. He grabs Hanzo’s hips with both of his hands and presses his fingers deep, as if that would somehow convince him. “Let’s just…” he wiggles in a decidedly _unerotic_ way, a pathetic attempt at demonstrating _just_ what he wants to do. Hanzo scowls. “Okay?”

Hanzo bites his lip. It is obvious that McCree does not wish to talk about whatever it is that plagues his mind, and Hanzo would not presume to have the right to pressure him to do that. He would not want to even if he _had it_ , he thinks. He wants McCree to be comfortable. He wants him to tell him because _he wants to tell_ , not because Hanzo wants to know.

Hanzo slouches on McCree and rolls off on the crook of his arm. When McCree wraps the arm around him, Hanzo knows it is more instinct than anything else, but it is reassuring nonetheless.

Hanzo presses his nose against McCree’s chest and runs his hand back down his stomach and between his legs. McCree makes a small noise of contention when Hanzo starts stroking him slowly and gently.

“You do not have to tell me,” Hanzo says, quietly, against McCree’s skin. His eyes are closed: he doesn’t know what he is scared of seeing if he opened them, but he keeps them shut tight as if his life depended on it. “But do not pretend everything is alright when it is not.”

McCree sighs (already shakily). He stays quiet for a moment, long enough for Hanzo to think he will not say anything at all anymore, but then there’s the press of lips on Hanzo’s forehead. “Alright, Hanzo,” he mumbles. “Alright.”

 

*

 

In the bright Ilios midday Hanzo can see it happen as if in slow motion: McCree cornered by an agent. His revolver spins in his fingers expertly as ever, his cocky grin plastered on his face like a tattoo, and Hanzo finds himself smiling too: a swell of pride and shared superiority, knowing that soon that poor agent is in for an unwinnable fight. Then, in a matter of seconds: McCree drops his gun. His smile falters. The agent gets his inning, smashes McCree’s head against the wall behind him.

Hanzo is stunned for one terrifying second, unable to understand what exactly happened. He has never seen McCree fumble with his gun, _never_ : he might be more expertly with his Peacekeeper than Hanzo is with his Storm Bow, even if he would never stoop as low as to admit to that out loud. And there he is, acting as if it isn’t an extension of his hand, as if it is his first time handling it, as if he is a rookie on the field and not someone with a 60 million bounty on his head.

Hanzo notches an arrow, releases it and it flies through the air and through the agent’s neck. He dies quickly enough, blood spilling all over, and Hanzo doesn’t linger on the startled look on McCree’s face. He jumps off the rooftop he is positioned on, says “Abandoning position” hastily into his comm before turning it off and throwing it away, and runs to McCree, who is now picking up his gun and looking at it with mild fear, then spins it again, holsters it, like nothing ever happened.

The only evidence of his blunder is his crooked hat and the dead-by-arrow agent lying in a pool of blood between them.

Hanzo cannot bring himself to say anything: what runs through his head is, _what have you done, you complete fool?_ He is frozen by fear and by anger both, and he knows McCree can see it. His eyes have always betrayed him, he has always worn his emotions on his sleeve, much as he has tried to avoid them. He can see McCree scrambling for an excuse, something believable and satisfying enough, and it infuriates him. He wants to scream: _the truth, you idiot_ , _just give me the truth,_ but cannot and he will not.

They are in a silent ceasefire. Possibly for minutes. The time has stopped and the only evidence of time passing is the dark red lake beneath their feet slowly spreading.

“Good shot,” McCree finally says, speaking slow and careful. “Mighty kind of you to have my back like that, even when I make a stupid mistake like that. I ‘spect you would’ve seen the whole show, then, what with you striding to my rescue like that so quick?”

McCree is blathering, and Hanzo is still unable to get any words out. Supposedly that is how they deal with things: McCree with too many words, none of which mean anything, and Hanzo with stony silence that speaks volumes. Perhaps if they were to combine their powers, they might even manage say something meaningful once in a while. In answer, Hanzo nods. In reaction, McCree sighs.

He rubs the back of his head and looks pained, almost.

“Aww, jeez,” he moans. “Shit. Okay. Time to come clean, I guess.”

Hanzo swallows, blinks, steadies himself mentally. He realizes that this moment is… important. He cannot quite understand how or why, but he knows that whatever is about to happen, the magnitude of it is… considerable.

“So you know how I have a prosthetic, right?” McCree asks, and for some reason, waits for an answer. Maybe because Hanzo has not said anything, hasn’t made a move even, until then.

“Yes, I have noticed this,” Hanzo says, and his throat feels like the desert.

“I lost my real arm some time ago. It wasn’t… a fun experience, all in all. Real painful.” McCree takes a small step towards Hanzo, tilts his head a bit as if to see if Hanzo is all there: still unmoving, his eyes fixed on McCree’s, not even blinking. “Sometimes, even now, I… get some phantom pains. It’s not like I can’t deal with it or anything, and it’s never interfered with any jobs before, it’s just that I’ve been a bit out of it lately and it hit me pretty hard. I wasn’t expecting it, it usually happens during downtime, and uh. For a second, I freaked out. Dropped my gun. Without you I’d probably be in the middle of a damn fist-fight, and although I’m pretty darn scrappy even if I say so myself, I don’t know what that guy had up his sleeve. Might’ve even brought a damn knife to a fist-fight. So thanks for that, really.”

Hanzo blinks, and begins the arduous process of trying to break down what exactly McCree just said during his tirade. He is nervous, so that must mean he has told the truth: he never loses his nerve lying. Of course he did have to come up with a way to tell something important so that he would bury the gist underneath everything that is trivial.

He takes his time, and if he weren’t so preoccupied with his own thoughts he might have noticed the way McCree slumps just a little as the time passes by.

“Why did you keep this from me?” he asks finally. He tries not to sound angry, even though he is, and he tries not to sound accusing, even though that is exactly what he is doing. He wants to be that comforting, understanding presence right now that he doesn’t know if McCree has ever had: the one he knows he has not had. He doesn’t know if that is something he can be.

“Just don’t like talking about it, is all,” McCree says avoiding eye contact.

Hanzo should understand: it is not as if he is comfortable laying his weaknesses for everyone to marvel at. Even so, he feels… underestimated, perhaps. Hurt that McCree thinks he would not have it in himself to bear it with him.

“Why have you been _out of it_?”

Hanzo is trying not to make it an interrogation: he hopes that this question would be easier for McCree to handle. He knows that he is not good with tones, he cannot do the thing McCree does with his voice where it goes completely soft and concerned. Hanzo is hard edges and anger and whatever lies underneath all that gets always complicated by appearances.

“You know. Ghosts.” McCree sighs, looks in the sky. “Everything’s a right mess and I don’t really know how to handle it.”

It has been a busy time for McCree, Hanzo supposes. With the return of so many of his thought-to-be fallen comrades from his Blackwatch days… Hanzo knows personally what it is like to be faced with people that were supposed to be dead. It is not easy.

Hanzo swallows and crosses the distance. Wraps his arms around McCree and hugs him tight.

In a few moment, McCree hesitantly hugs him back. Few moments more, and he’s pulling him in tight.

“You do not have to endure this alone,” Hanzo says.

He feels McCree burying his face in Hanzo’s hair, hears him inhaling deep the scent of him. They stay like that for a while: just them two and the man Hanzo killed at their feet.

Eventually, McCree says, “Thank you.” Hanzo does not answer it, but he thinks that it is not McCree who should be thanking anyone.

 

*

 

Hanzo sits on McCree’s bed staring at the _thing_ on the floor and cannot even begin to understand _why_ he thought it would be a good idea to bring it here. In that moment, half an hour before McCree’s arrival, he is painfully aware of how incredibly stupid the whole idea was.

It’s just… he couldn’t resist it, could he?

He was in Dorado on a mission. McCree was on the other side of the planet on a mission of his own, somewhere where it was cold and that prompted him to send messages full of complaints on an hourly basis. Because Hanzo missed him (he could admit that he did, even if he was not happy about the fact: he was still unused to the idea of depending on anyone except himself) he cherished every frowny emoji sent to his way, but in whole it did little to alleviate his longing.

On the last evening before they were set to leave he sat in a park bench on his own, eating a sandwich. He looked at the picture on his phone, the one where his brother and McCree were sitting together, laughing at something ridiculous: Hanzo could not remember what it was, but he could still recall the warm flutter in his stomach that prompted him to take the photo. He stroked the screen with his thumb, trailing McCree’s face, and then stopped realizing what he was doing: even though there was no-one around, he quickly turned off the screen and pocketed the device, insistent on pretending that he had not just caressed his _phone_.

But he couldn’t help it: he missed McCree. He had gotten used to his presence, he had learned to like him more than he could put in words. Not knowing when — _if_ , if he were realistic about it, which he often was to a fault and in this instance very reluctant to be — McCree would come back had him in a sulky mood, and so he sought to be even more isolated. The rest of the agents assigned to this mission — Lúcio, Hana, Tracer — were spending their time together, trying to relax and enjoy each other’s company with a movie and an outrageous amount of snacks. Hanzo had opted out and chosen to spend his evening alone in a park with a cheap, borderline disgusting sandwich.

He sat there for a long while, and then… Then, a whine somewhere near his ankles.

He turned to look at it and saw a mangy mutt sitting in front of him. It was tiny, brown and missing one of its front legs, and it looked like it had been through hell and back.

Hanzo tried not to care. He looked away from it and pretended it wasn’t there, pretended he hadn’t seen it. When that didn’t work out, when the mutt kept whining and staring at him, Hanzo tried to push him away. He nudged it gently with his foot. It did not budge: it stared at Hanzo pathetically and whined.

It was the saddest thing Hanzo had seen in a long, long while.

So he caved and gave it a bite of his sandwich, and then ended up giving it the whole thing. Later he would say that it hardly tasted better than dog food in the first place, so it wasn’t much of a loss. But the dog gobbled it up joyously like it had never had anything as delicious. It didn’t leave even then: it stayed, happily jumping and yelping at Hanzo, and he tried his best to tell it to go away, but it stayed.

It followed Hanzo to the hotel he stayed in, too. Hanzo didn’t have a _choice_ , he really didn’t. He took it with him, all the way to Gibraltar.

Now it sits in the middle of McCree’s room, staring at Hanzo with its huge eyes. Hanzo stares back, knowing that McCree will be there any moment.

Hanzo thinks: this must be the worst gift he has ever given anyone. Why would McCree want the additional responsibility of taking care of a _dog?_ It is not as if they’re carrying the future of the whole world on their shoulders already.

Hanzo falls on his back on the bed, drags exasperated hands across his face. This will backfire, he is sure of it.

He doesn’t stand up even when the door goes, indicating McCree’s approval. Not even with McCree’s joyous greetings: “Honey, I’m home!” because he knows that in a moment, there is going to be words.

He counts in his mind until ten, and then:

“Hanzo? There’s a dog on the floor.”

“I know,” Hanzo says against his hands.

“Why?”

Hanzo feels the bed dipping when McCree sits on it. There’s a hand gently lifting Hanzo’s away from his face. Hanzo is forced to open his eyes and look at McCree in the eyes. He is wearing an expression of amusement and confusion, and Hanzo finds himself at a loss. He _really_ , truly does not know how to explain the decision he made.

“It followed me,” Hanzo tries.

McCree chuckles warmly. “All the way from Dorado? Must’ve been a helluva swimmer.”

Hanzo groans. “ _In_ Dorado. It… I got it. For you. It reminded me of… you. So I took it with me.”

“Aw,” McCree says, and turns his gaze from Hanzo to the dog. His eyes darken, then. “Because it’s missing a leg?”

“No. Because it kept begging me for treats.”

McCree laughs a little, leans in to press his face closer to Hanzo. “I don’t really have to _beg_ , do I?”

“Hn.” Hanzo cannot help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He looks at McCree, straight into his brown eyes, their colour the exact same beautiful hue as the dogs’. “Perhaps not. Yet you do, nonetheless.”

McCree gives him a light kiss.

“So. A dog?”

Hanzo scoffs. He doesn’t really know how else to react.

“If you do not like it, you can take it to a shelter.”

“No! No, no!” McCree sounds almost panicked as he bows to pick up the dog, lifting it up and looking it straight into its eyes. It yelps happily: McCree grins brighter than the sun at the sound. Hanzo feels that annoyingly warm sense of _contention_ or something akin to it bubbling in his stomach, trying to make him believe he can be _happy_ . His throat feels tight. “I love…” he checks the dog’s nether regions by lifting it even higher, “... _him._ I’m just trying to wrap my head around the logic of you getting me a dog.”

McCree settles the dog on his lap, and it makes itself comfortable immediately, settling down and its head on its paws. He stares at Hanzo from there, and McCree does too: they wear near identical expressions, and Hanzo really doesn’t know why he had to subject himself to something like this at all.

“You like dogs, do you not?” he deflects.

“Yeah, I do,” McCree says. He looks like a child who got everything he wished for on Christmas.

“Then is that not enough of a reason?”

McCree tilts his head, and Hanzo tries to ignore the fact that the damn mutt does the same at that exact moment.

“If it were anyone else, maybe it would. But, darling, I know there’s something more going in that pretty head of yours, and it’s not like I’m not thankful, it’s just that I want to understand.”

Hanzo sighs. Of course McCree deserves to know: he just doesn’t really know how to explain it. Whatever he thought when he took the dog in Dorado feels entirely ridiculous by now.

“I thought…” he looks at the dog, looks at McCree, both wearing faces of confusion, the former looking happy and the latter worried. “I will never truly understand how it is to you, when you are in pain. But perhaps it would. Perhaps you would find some solace in each other during the bad days.”

McCree stares at him with an unreadable expression long enough for worry to creep up Hanzo’s mind. Maybe he crossed a line. Maybe he went about this completely wrong. Maybe he just insulted McCree by saying that he needs a therapy animal, maybe —

“Aww, _honey_ ,” McCree says with such utter affection that Hanzo forgets how to breathe for just a second. McCree takes advantage of Hanzo’s stillness, pulls him into a kiss from the back of his neck. It is warm and loving and Hanzo grabs McCree’s shirt tight, as if he is scared he would go away.

A few seconds pass before McCree parts, but not far. He looks at Hanzo with the gentlest expression Hanzo has ever seen, and Hanzo’s heart hurts looking at it. He thinks about how much he missed McCree, how much he wanted to be with him all this time they spent apart.

The dog claws at Hanzo’s leg, trying to include itself in this equation.

“Sometimes you’re just too damn sweet for your own good.” McCree smiles in such a disarming way that if _that_ had been the first thing Hanzo had seen him do, he imagines he would have fallen for him straight away. “But you’re enough, Hanzo, alright? You’re enough. Always were.”

Hanzo swallows. He cannot find any lies in McCree’s eyes. They’re all eager honesty.

“Very well,” he says, before kissing him again, this time pouring in all the feelings of longing he endured during the past weeks.

 

*

 

Hanzo wakes up when McCree jerks awake nearly violently. He looks at him, clutching his prosthetic arm, eyes closed in pain. Hanzo sits up.

“Jesse?”

“Just some phantom pain, is all,” McCree says through gritted teeth. “It’s alright.”

Hanzo does not hesitate this time. He settles him behind McCree, kisses his neck, leans against his back. Runs his fingers along his shoulders and down his arm. Massages where his flesh ends and the prosthesis begins.

“You don’t have to worry, darling,” McCree mutters. “Just go back to sleep.”

“You’re not alone, Jesse,” Hanzo says, softly but firmly, speaking against the nape of McCree’s neck. He doesn’t stop massaging, and wraps his free arm around McCree’s torso to pull him closer. “I am here for you.”

A muffled huff comes from the floor, and in a second, Trigger has hopped onto the bed and curled himself on McCree’s lap. It begins licking where Hanzo massages, lapping all over the arm, the prosthetic and Hanzo’s hand.

“You do not have to endure this alone,” Hanzo repeats, emphasising the words with press of his lips on McCree’s shoulder.

McCree chuckles, a tired, mirthless sound, but genuine nonetheless.

“Guess you’re right,” he says, and Hanzo can hear the smile in his voice.

 


End file.
